


Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

by Blissymbolics



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley is a good person, Infant Death, M/M, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 20:25:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19303195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blissymbolics/pseuds/Blissymbolics
Summary: “You’re very fond of children, aren’t you?" Aziraphale remarks, breaking their spell of silence. “For as long as I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever once seen you harm a child.”“I’m a demon. Not Satan.”“But still, a human soul is a human soul. Why are only those of fully mature adults worth harvesting?”Irritation crosses Crowley’s previously neutral expression. “It has nothing to do with all the philosophic banalities your lot like to micromanage into neat little labels. I don’t like hurting kids, so I don’t hurt kids. It’s as simple as that.”





	Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> I fully subscribe to the headcanon that Crowley is Raphael.

“Listen, I’ve had shrimp out in Vegas, so I’m used to eating seafood where it has no business being served. But you know what, at least that freeze-dried desert shrimp didn’t come with a side serving of tariff violations.”

They’ve been entrenched in this argument for the last four blocks, speaking far louder than civility would dictate, and Aziraphale can feel his blood pressure cresting. He was so excited to finally invite Crowley to his favorite sushi restaurant, but all it took was one sniff of the place before the demon promptly declared it a front. Of course Aziraphale protested and argued in the restaurant's defense, but at this point he’s reasonably certain that Crowley is only flaunting his antagonism to rile him up.

“For the last time, there’s nothing illegal about their establishment. Or their menu. Besides, even if there was – which there isn’t – what right would you have to judge? You wore illicitly-sourced snake skin shoes for decades.

“I haven’t worn those shoes since ’94. And besides, I wrestled the python fair and square.”

Crowley is grinning like a mad man, clearly over the moon with delight despite his faux grievances.

“We can cut through here,” Aziraphale remarks, pointing to the alley on their right. “Regardless, I don’t want you shutting down one of my favorite restaurants all because you thought you detected a hint of whale. Besides, how would you even recognize it? You never eat anything apart from chocolate mousse and streetcar chips.”

“So you’d rather carry on in blissful ignorance patronizing a business that could be serving up neat little slabs of endangered species? There’s a word for that you know: Evil.”

Aziraphale bristles with indignation. “You’re making very large leaps of–”

“Hey, wait a second.” Crowley suddenly goes still, his smile vanishing. “I just got a bad feeling.”

Aziraphale briefly wonders if he’s going to make another joke about the quality of the food; but no, his posture is far too guarded for it to be in jest. He’s glancing around the dim alleyway, his hackles raised like a bloodhound.

“Are we being followed?” Aziraphale asks quietly, glancing back towards the mouth of the alley.

“No, it’s not that.” He sniffs the air, cringing dramatically. “There’s something dead nearby. Very nearby.”

Aziraphale gives the air a sniff as well.

“Maybe a dog or cat,” he offers.

“Maybe.”

The entire alleyway reeks of unseemly odors; it’s difficult to separate one from another. But yes, underneath the general grime, mold, and unpleasant olfactory overtones, there is something concentrated and pungent at the very core. Not so much a smell in the technical sense. More of an aura. An ambience of death.

“You’re right. I can sense it too.”

Without exchanging a word, they both begin walking in the same direction, towards a low set of concrete steps several meters down the alley. Lying on the lowest step they can see a bundle of cloth: an old grey towel, stained and frayed. Both of them slowly crouch lower, too afraid to confirm what’s inside.

“Is that?” Crowley asks, even though he must already know.

“I think so. Though I hope I’m wrong.”

Crowley remains immobile, leaving Aziraphale with the task of rousing enough courage to delicately pull back the flaps of cloth, only to have their suspicions affirmed.

Nestled in the fabric is a tragically small baby boy. His skin is a deep shade of purple, and his limbs are stiff with rigor mortis. Aziraphale quickly folds the fabric back over his naked body, both for Crowley’s benefit and his own.

“Poor little one,” he sighs, unsure what else to say.

He’s witnessed the deaths of innumerable children throughout his time here on earth, yet it’s been a long time since he’s encountered something so biblical in nature.

Tragedies such as this simply don’t happen as often as they used to. Especially not in the upscale neighborhoods of downtown London. Whoever abandoned the child obviously wanted him to be found, as they made no attempt to hide the remains.

“Probably stillborn,” Aziraphale remarks in Crowley’s silence. “They didn’t even clean him up.”

The baby’s dark hair is still coated with dried afterbirth, and there are patches of what look to be his mother’s blood plastered across his skin. He probably passed away shortly before entering the world. And the longer Aziraphale stares at him, the more mournful it becomes.

He doesn’t look preterm. And there are no obvious congenital defects. By all accounts, he should still be here, crying and nursing, absorbing the sounds and smells around him and enjoying his first day on earth.

Humans have slaved tirelessly for the last six thousand years to heal their offspring and nurture them under the worst of circumstances. Yet still, even in the present day, sometimes they slip from your grasp before you can catch them.

Neither of them move. They simply remain crouched there, staring at the bundle in front of them, maybe blindly hoping that he’ll stir to life. Aziraphale so dearly wishes that they could return back in time several minutes ago; back when they were all smiles and banter, basking in a brief reprieve from the eternal cycle of death that they’ve been watching spin like a wheel for all of human history.

Crowley hasn’t said anything yet. He’s just staring down at the baby’s dormant face, his mouth clenched in a thin line.

Then he tilts forward and reaches out a hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Bringing him back.”

“What– no!” Aziraphale exclaims, swatting his hand away.

“You’ve been pestering me to hand out good deeds since before the invention of stairs. Congratulations, you won. Now let me bring him back.”

“You can’t, Crowley,” he states firmly, shielding the child with his arm. “I know God’s plan may be a bit more open to interpretation than originally thought, but resurrection isn’t just some small miracle that one can toss out without permission.”

“I’ve seen you bring back birds and bloody butterflies!”

“That’s different. Yes, I’ve brought back my fair share of animals, and humans as well, but always within minutes after death. Their bodies were still warm. And their souls were still present. They hadn’t crossed over yet. This one… his soul is gone. Bringing him back would be necromancy. What’s more, it would mean pulling him out of heaven.”

The heavy silence that follows indicates that the argument is over. With a tired sigh, Crowley retracts his hand. The subtle determination in his face gives way to melancholy, superficially aging him several years. They sit in silence for a while longer, ignoring the sound of pedestrians on the main thoroughfare and the cacophony of vehicles. Amidst all the noise, the baby seems preternaturally silent. Babies are supposed to be full of noise; always crying and cooing, grunting and gurgling. Even when sleeping they breathe with their full weight, like little steam engines.

It’s odd. When Aziraphale first arrived on earth, he hardly flinched at the sight of corpses. After all, bodies were simply vessels. They were irrelevant in the hierarchy of ascension. The soul was all that mattered, and it baffled him how humans could grow so attached to something as empty as a seashell on the beach.

But after six thousand years, human nature has corrupted him to the point where he can’t in good conscious view the body in front of him as anything but a complete and perfect human.

Finally, Crowley lets out a sigh as he glances towards the end of the alley.

“Can we at least bring him to hospital so they can take care of him?”

Aziraphale can’t help but smile. It’s touching that Crowley is referring to him as if he were still alive and in need of care. Clearly the demon has been contaminated by human sentimentality just as much as he has.

“Of course.”

Crowley gives a small nod, then leans forward to pull the towel tighter around the baby, carefully covering his face. Then he gingerly lifts him; his weight so delicate he almost looks buoyant in Crowley's arms.

“He’s probably unbaptized. You sure your friends will let him in?” Crowley asks, forcing a sad smile as he situates the boy against his chest, imparting an unneeded gentleness.

“He’s already there. I can sense it.” That’s a lie, but hopefully it’ll make Crowley feel better. “Besides, we’ve never required baptism. It simply helps you get to the front of the line.”

“Like a fast pass at an amusement park?”

“Precisely.”

Crowley gives him a ghost of a smile, and for a split second, Aziraphale can pretend that the child cradled in his arms is only sleeping.

“Where’s the nearest hospital around here?”

“If my memory serves, I believe there’s one only seven or so blocks that way,” he answers, pointing in the direction they were headed anyways.

“That’s convenient. But also morbidly depressing.”

“How so?”

“It makes you wonder why the mother didn’t go.”

With that, he starts walking, leaving Aziraphale to grapple with the weight of that observation.

They walk in silence for several blocks. It’s only a bit past nine in the evening, so the sidewalks are teeming with lively pedestrians, all talking and window shopping, but paying no mind to the two eccentric men carrying a suspiciously bundled parcel. People part for them like waves before Moses, as they both expend small amounts of grace to subtly manipulate the crowd, allowing them to blend in with the scenery, tampering all suspicion before it can ferment.

“You’re very fond of children, aren’t you?" Aziraphale remarks, breaking their spell of silence. “For as long as I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever once seen you harm a child.”

“I’m a demon. Not Satan.”

“But still, a human soul is a human soul. Why are only those of fully mature adults worth harvesting?”

Irritation crosses Crowley’s previously neutral expression. “It has nothing to do with all the philosophic banalities your lot like to micromanage into neat little labels. I just don’t like hurting kids, so I don’t hurt kids. It’s as simple as that.”

Crowley starts walking a bit faster, forcing Aziraphale to hasten his stride. He walks straight through the stoplights, telepathically commanding the drivers to stop for him without even letting out a honk.

Aziraphale searches for something else to say, but he can sense that Crowley is reaching his limit. After all, he’s been carrying the corpse of a newborn for nearly ten minutes now, resolutely trying to maintain his composure, even though it must be tearing him apart. He’s finally made it to a point where he’s more or less free from hell’s roster and sincerely wants to inject good into the world. He’s brimming with potential. He could fundamentally alter humanity for the better. And yet he can’t even perform this one simple miracle. At least not without trespassing into the Almighty’s territory.

“And I feel bad for the parents,” Crowleys says, unprompted. “I mean, can you imagine losing a kid, and then just having to get on with your life?”

“The majority of parents throughout human history have had to do so.”

“And that’s why they don’t need me making it any worse.”

They turn a final corner, and there’s the hospital, just as Aziraphale remembered it. After a moment of deliberation, they decide to simply enter through the front door, unsure where these types of transactions are typically carried out.

Aziraphale explains the situation to the receptionist in a hushed tone, and she quickly ushers them down the hall into an empty exam room, then leaves to fetch help. A doctor arrives maybe ten minutes later, only to press a stethoscope to the baby’s immobile chest and make a few notes before phoning the mortuary.

Within minutes someone from the morgue comes up to retrieve him. Then he’s carted away. Probably to be cremated within the next couple days.

The doctor then offers the use of his office so they can speak with the police, a suggestion that catches them both off guard. Are they being threatened? Do the medical staff actually think they could be suspects? But no, it’s just a formality. Humans very much like their formalities.

So they wait in the doctor’s spacious office on the third floor until two police officers arrive to collect their testimonies. A young woman asks them the usual questions: When and where did you find him? Any suspicious individuals? Any sign of a struggle? Aziraphale answers on Crowley’s behalf as the demon sulks into his thinly-padded chair.

“Any reason you didn’t call the police to report the incident?” she asks with a gruffness bordering on rude, triggering Aziraphale’s defenses.

“But what could you have done?” he asks, slightly offended. “He was long gone by the time we found him.”

“Still, if it happens again, make sure you phone us and leave the scene intact.”

“If it happens again?” Crowley sneers incredulously. “You really think our luck is that shit?”

Before the officer can voice her offense, Aziraphale raises a hand.

“I think I can handle whatever else is needed here. Could he maybe wait down in the lobby?” he asks, certain that she’s going to refuse. But after a moment of consideration, she turns to her colleague.

“Mason, could you wait with him in the lobby? I’ll be down shortly.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers with a nod.

Surprisingly, Crowley follows him without protest.

“Sorry about that,” Aziraphale says once they’re both out the door. “He’s the one who carried the baby here. It put him in a bit of a state.”

“No, I understand. Sorry for giving you a hard time,” she says with a kind smile that Aziraphale didn’t even have to miracle into place.

He’s dismissed not long after with the promise that the police will call if anything else is needed.

Aziraphale is more than ready to return to his bookshop after such an emotionally wrought detour. Crowley will probably want to go to sleep right away, as he usually does whenever something tests his limits. Sometimes the demon is just too empathetic for his own wellbeing.

After stepping out of the elevator, he glances around the nearly-vacant lobby, wondering where Crowley could be. His quaff of red hair is nowhere in sight.

“Pardon me,” he says to the receptionist; the same one from earlier. “The tall man who was with me earlier, did you see him leave?”

“No, sorry.” She shakes her head. “I haven’t seen him pass through here. But I could have missed him.”

That seems unlikely. It’s very difficult for anyone to miss Crowley’s presence, unless of course he’s bending reality to make himself unnoticeable, which he very well could be. But still, why would he leave? Maybe the hospital air was just too unsettling. But it’s only been ten or so minutes since they parted. Surely he could have held out for a little while longer.

Or maybe… No, he wouldn’t. That would be absurd.

But it is absolutely something Crowley would do, absurdity and all her sisters be damned.

It takes a while for Aziraphale to locate the morgue. He knew it had to be vaguely downwards, but there were no obvious signs or markers indicating its location.

Finally, he manages to find the discreet entrance down a quiet hallway, the lighting and architecture identical to every other wing he’s passed through thus far.

Upon entering the reception area, his suspicions are confirmed.

Everyone is frozen in place. Like mannequins set out for display.

There’s a young man sitting behind the main desk, his mouth slightly parted in speech, a pen clasped between his fingers. Standing across from him is an elderly woman, the tears on her cheeks still slightly damp. There’s also a younger couple sitting in the plastic chairs; maybe partners, maybe siblings, who can say?

If anyone else were to walk in, they’d think it a scene from a nightmare.

Aziraphale quickly walks in the direction of a nurse frozen in mid-stride, pushing through the inner doors that lead deeper into the bowels of the wing.

Crowley left more victims in his path. A doctor in a long white coat, an orderly pushing a bed. Scattered souls all trapped inside their own heads, placated and ignorant to the spell gripping them like a fairytale.

Finally he reaches the autopsy room, and with a flick of his hand he overrides the access control lock, causing it to beep and flash green.

There, in the well-lit room, he comes face to face with an elderly woman clothed in a blue medical gown, her hands raised in protest. Her mouth is parted, and there’s a look of shock on her face. She probably spent her last conscious moments objecting to her visitor’s arrival.

And there on the metal table in the middle of the room is the baby, his body cleaned of grime and afterbirth, but still purple as a deep bruise and stiff as all the other corpses lying in the storage units against the walls.

And then there’s Crowley, leaning over the table, both hands braced on the edge, staring down at the exposed infant as if he were trying to gaze through the layers of his skin and catalogue his decaying organs. Determination clouds his expression, heartbreaking in how misguided it is. He’s radiating tension, so far beyond his body yet so grounded. And he’s so fixated on his task that he doesn’t even give Aziraphale a courtesy glance when he enters.

Aziraphale is caught between dual desires to comfort and berate him. How has Crowley managed to survive this long on earth if a single infant death can consume him so adversely? It’s impossible to sustain himself on this standard. It’ll drive him mad.

“Crowley, I say this with all affection, but what the bloody hell are you doing?”

“I’m praying. Now shut up.”

Now that certainly catches Aziraphale off guard. Praying? To God herself? Surely Crowley is aware that she answers for no one. She may silently listen, but she certainly doesn’t grant indulgences for every heartbroken human begging for the return of a child.

“Crowley, this is getting obsessive. I told you, we can’t–”

“Please, please shut up. Just… let me try,” he pleads, his eyes beginning to grow glassy. And despite his reservations, Aziraphale finds himself incapable of saying no. He could never say no.

So he nods, giving Crowley permission to return to his trance. If this is his grieving process, then he should leave him be. Besides, the fact that Crowley, a demon, is wholeheartedly praying to God herself is a miracle in its own right. And if she is truly opposed to the child’s resurrection, then she’ll cut him off at the source should he attempt it.

For a moment he worries that she might punish Crowley should he try, but he quickly dismisses that fear. Her ways may be mysterious, but she wouldn’t be so cruel as to punish a newly reformed demon for trying to breathe life into a stillborn soul. Or at least, he hopes she wouldn’t.

The clock ticks loudly. Crowley’s body remains rigid, a light sheen of sweat glistening in the oppressive light. After three full minutes of silence, Aziraphale opens his mouth to suggest that they quietly take their leave. Return home. Light the fireplace. Leave these humans to tend to their dead.

But then, there’s a gentle sound. Barely more than a sigh. So small, yet it seems to echo off every surface.

Then a tiny gasp.

Aziraphale stares at the child in celestial wonderment as his deep purple hue drains away like poison being lifted from a wound, revealing a healthy tan complexion glowing with the dewy glaze of a newborn. His locked limbs fall slack, the muscles bending naturally as he shifts in a small wriggle: probably his first movements outside the shelter of the womb.

No, this is too much. It can’t be possible. God never bestows such miracles, not even when humans are plunged into depths of tragedy so profound the aftershocks reverberate throughout generations. What could Crowley have possibly said to convince God to deliver the child’s soul back into its material form? What’s more, how is Crowley capable of acheiving such reverence? The kind that humans and angels have vainly sought after all their lives?

Aziraphale expects the baby to start wailing. After all, his spirit must have been safely nestled in the tranquil cocoon of heaven. Perfectly content, never exposed to the cruel discomforts of the waking world.

But he doesn’t cry. His sounds seem to be involuntary and curious. He stretches out his limbs and contorts his little face into a medley of conflicting expressions.

“I can’t believe…” Aziraphale stammers. “Did God–”

“Yeah, she answered the phone,” Crowley replies, smiling zealously down at the child with overwhelming affection and possibly a smug sense of satisfaction.

Then he reaches forward to place a hand on the child’s head, running his fingers through his short black hair.

And in that moment, Aziraphale has never loved a creature so wholly. Or holy, if you will. Not even God herself.

For as long as church doctrine has existed, the leaders of the faith have chastised those who dared to love their fellow man more than the Almighty herself. For there was no greater love in the universe than love for its creator. And for the longest time, Aziraphale subscribed to that belief. Yet now, here he is, at the gates of hedonism, silently pledging his eternal love to a demon who is far closer to God than he will ever be.

And he’s only a little bit jealous.

“Right, let’s go,” Crowley says cheerily before unfolding a towel at the end of the bench and draping it over the child.

“You’re not going to bring him?” Aziraphale asks. Surely Crowley wants to keep him. Besides, caring for him must have been a stipulation for his resurrection.

“He’s not mine,” Crowley says with a smile before giving the baby one final caress. “Besides, I’ve seen all the movies. I know that immortals who get attached to humans always lose in the end. Why do you think I keep you around?”

With that, he turns to the door, bypassing Aziraphale with nary a wave.

“And take care of the scrubs lady, will ya?” he says before striding out into the hall.

Aziraphale stands there gobsmacked as the heavy metal door falls shut behind him. Of course Crowley had to claim all the glory and then leave him to clean up the mess. Hopefully Crowley didn’t do anything too dubious with the police officer who was supposed to be escorting him.

With a sigh, he turns to the inert woman, taking a step closer to gaze into her hazel eyes.

“You won’t remember us. But you will have witnessed a miracle tonight.”

And with that, he snaps his fingers.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/blissymbolics1) / [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/blissymbolics)


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